Too Far Gone
by Bloodredfirefly
Summary: They do not want love. They do not want Victory, or wealth, or the cheers of the Capitol, ringing through the night air, mocking them, suffocating them. They just want to go home for their siblings. But they can't, not without playing the Games first, and this time they need each other to win. What do you have, what do you fight with, when courage and strength will not save you?
1. Falling Rain

**Disclaimer: I don't own the Hunger Games, blah, blah, blah, I don't make anything from this blah, blah, blah, I don't own this plot line as it's already been done a gazillion times before blah, blah, blah, oh, and I don't like Coffee. So which of those facts surprises you most?**

Falling Rain

It's taken my parents 20 years to get close to their dreams, to have a victor in the family tree – it's so fashionable after all, and it's hard for them both as they're the third wealthiest family in the district and 'new money'. Only a few more weeks to wait and their biological son will have slaughtered his way to Victory as well as to fame, fortune and freedom.

Ha, freedom – the only reason I'm doing this. Not for them with their fashionable, high society and Capitol loving ideas. Not even for me, because I worked out years ago that the games weren't about glory, but about _suffering_. Burning and keeping your cool, all tossed in together and thrown around in the arena, till you come out either in a box or as a murderer. But I can't back down. Not when I'm fighting for my freedom.

I smile inwardly; I had mastered my poker face long ago to hide what I was feeling, thinking of the irony. My brother's name means warrior – Boza, named after a family friend – but he's my innocent little brother, the one I have to bathe in blood for so that he can be free and never have to touch a weapon. He's four. In two months, my parents will decide whether to sell him to the Academy for training or to send him to school, to become a head peacekeeper or work in the Capitol. If I win he'll be safe. If I die then he will be forced to follow in my footsteps. We already have a brother and a sister married, they were twins, and we don't see them anymore. Boza has only met them once, when he was first-born – since then I've only met them at formal gatherings when they both act civil and detached and my sister tries to mask her terror for her unborn child, knowing her husband wants a Victor too. They all do.

So here we are. I shake my dad's hand, kiss my mother's cheek and promise to bring them both honour and pride. Holidays aren't long in the Academy and neither of my parents had ever sat down to ask how I was, just how I was progressing. They leave the room in a dignified manner, and I immediately slump back in my chair with a sigh, promising myself I will never become like that. Now I just need to wait the hour out. I wasn't expecting any guests, all my friends were in the Academy and knew I'd been chosen to enter – we may make a show, do the reaping, dress up nice and volunteer quickly but's it's all chosen beforehand, so we've already said our goodbyes.

"Your posture hasn't improved much." A familiar voice says lazily from the doorway, and my eyes snap open. There she stands, my old governess, nurse, friend and surrogate mother who is holding Boza in her arms and looking at me with that same non-condescending, understanding look I remember from my childhood. I'm across the room in a flash and hugging her before taking Boza into my arms. He's grown but he's every bit as quiet, he nearly gets squashed and he just blinks up at me with wide eyes. Sure he can pack a hell of a sound when he wants to but he's a bit like a siren – loud as ever, and then silent as soon as he gets his way. He almost, nearly smiles at me when I tickle his chin. Sometimes it's like he just switches off, goes void of emotion, but I can understand that, I know that blocking everything out and feeling nothing will be my mantra from now on, for as long as I live, which is a very undefined amount of time.

"Thank you," I tell her, studying her lined face for any sign of mistreatment. "Thank you so much. How did you get him here?"

"Oh, he did the work. I wasn't even planning it, just taking him along to look pretty as your mama wished and he started his end of the world shrieking. The mayor took one look and sent me into the corridor, where he quieted down and I just happened to stumble upon you. Well, possibly after a little look around the place, a little venture through the kitchen but I'm here now." She smiles, and even though it's only a little smile, it's a gap in the gateway that leads to heaven. My mother bought her 'services' from her own father twenty-two years ago, and she's lived with us ever since, I know her well and I love her as family. In the upper classes of District 2 your parents 'own' your services, so you can be sold off in infancy to a husband, to the Academy or to a house hold for whatever means they see fit – to a brothel, or a slum or even a forced labour camp, though you only get sent there if you break the rules and bring shame upon the family name.

Noelle was lucky, some would say. Seventh child, lower end of the wealth spectrum, she could have been married to a miner who'd made it to a high position, or she could have been transferred to a lower district like Four after she failed the health test into the Academy. Instead she was fortunate, she was blessed, and she was sold here to be the caretaker of the fine family of the Lawson's to raise their children. To watch them being left to whatever fate awaited them, marriage or the games, a future balancing literally on the knife-edge, to kill or be killed. The idea was of course that she would marry as soon as she proved her worth, but even when I was in the academy and Boza wasn't born, she stayed in our house, doing housework and writing to me twice a week for eight years, she's never left me, not even once.

"You will take care won't you? Eat your greens and brush your teeth and all that?" She asks, a worried frown on her face. I understand what she's really asking me – you will hold on, won't you? You won't give up? I bury my face in Boza's hair as he digs his blunt nails in and shifts around in my arms. Of course he doesn't understand that until I come home I'll be thinking of this moment, of how he has all his life ahead of him and I have to make sure he gets to live that life well. He's small, but in his dark eyes I see a burden he's already being forced to bear. A nurse is no replacement for a mother, however deep the bond goes between you.

"I will. I'll come home to you both, alive." _On the outside_ I silently add. The peacekeeper who's waiting outside raps on the door and shouts that we have only two minutes left, and I turn, suddenly desperate for a last piece of home comfort. I reach out and pull her into my embrace. We hold each other there, silently pleading with each other to return, to never walk away from the fragile and breaking family we have together.

"Here," She whispers finally. "I want you to take this." On a reflex I take it into my hand, and then immediately try to give it back. But she's pulled away, taking my brother with her, and her eyes are both impossibly gentle and frighteningly fierce. It's her family ring, the one she'll give to her husband to keep when she marries – if she marries. I silently remind myself, looking at her worn face, every one of her thirty-eight years showing clear as day on her skin and in her eyes, as she helped me come to terms with my fate. I know that she's already chosen her family and children. And now her little boy is going into the games, to come back either in a box clutching her ring, the one she should be buried with, or with blood on his hands and in his mind. Quickly I remove the chain from around my neck and take off my family ring, swapping it with hers. I feel a moments unease about being parted with my family crest – the rings are forged for us at birth, given to us at fourteen and buried with us when we die so we can be reunited with our family in the next world. I may not believe in the last part but it means a lot to me. Quickly, as I can hear marching feet, I banish the uncertainty and hold it out to her.

"Take it, please take it. Please." She hears the Peacekeepers a second after I do and quickly grabs it, slipping it on her finger. The door opens and they nod to me, respecting me both for my wealth and my status as a tribute. I hold my head high as I nod calmly to my brother and Noelle, walking out the door without a backwards glance. In my head I go over my mentor's top five rules for Peacekeepers – never admit your guilty, never lose your composure, hold eye contact but keep your palms open and your shoulders slumped, never argue and finally give them a blow to the head before running like hell if they try to take you to anywhere. A trainee's reputation must be pristine, the punishment of failure is excruciating.

As I march down the corridor I'm joined by Clove, and I can't help but wonder what Blare, my mentor's, reaction would be to which is worse – the pain of hearing a child crying as you walk away or the consequences if I run back to comfort him.

Consequences. I can see it in his eyes; he's what I'm going to be. A dead man walking, life made meaningless by taking life.

Katniss' POV:

Cinna sprays the anti-fire directly into my eyes, saving me from burning but making me stumble in my chariot. Peeta's hand holds tight around mine and starts to make my fingers numb as he hauls me up, his other hand patting my shoulder in a friendly gesture that makes me want to scream at him. _We're in the games, not in a social contest! You're days away from spilling my blood and you're asking if I'm alright?_ I smile, tight-lipped and nod instead. I don't trust myself to control my waves of anger, not now. At some point, sure, but not when my fingers are itching and my toes curling to pin him to the ground and prove that I'm not someone to be reckoned with. I don't need anyone's concern, especially not his. There was a time when I needed him and in that time, yes, I should have thanked him. But that time is now gone and he has no claim over me.

Whilst I was silently raging, the boy from 2 had jumped off his chariot. He held the reins of one of the horses as though he'd been around them all his life – he probably had. He had his back turned to me but I hadn't forgotten the expression on his face earlier, the jealousy and anger and fierce rivalry when he'd seen our flames burn brightly around us. Now, it was like he was deliberately ignoring us, like we were nothing, meaningless. The anger sparked again but I beat it down. After all, if he didn't care, then why should I?

Cinna packed me off to the lifts, as they took Peeta away to check for acid leaks. They said it was extremely unlikely as the container was only dented, but it was a precaution they had to take.

"Don't worry dear!" Effie had said to me, in her most squeaky and paternal voice, like I was eight. "Peeta will be just fine soon. The Capitol has really good medicine and we can give him pain killers if he needs them." She stressed out the word painkillers – because of course, coming from twelve, how would I know what they are? I stared at her, stone faced for a moment before turning away in disgust. Of course I wished no pain upon Peeta, and I knew that he deserved a long, happy life with a wife and a family and a safe, warm place to live. But right now, I had to think of Prim.

And so I want Peeta Mellark dead.

I take long strides to reach the lift where an Avox presses the button for me. By now all the tributes are coming over to get up to their floors, along with mentors, stylists, prep teams…. The whole merry, messed up bunch. District 1 pushes in, striding past me to get in the lift, all giving me cocky glances as they go. I keep my face smooth and looking uncaring as the District 2 male follows without even looking at me. There's room for one more but no-body volunteers to go with them, and so the Avox presses the button again.

"Wait," A voice says, and then I'm being pulled roughly into the lift, the doors closing behind me. The Avox has no time to stop it before the lift begins its journey upwards, with me and the three careers staring at each other in hostile surprise – or just hostility for Cato. I blink at the sudden jerk of memory; I hadn't realised that I knew his name. I can't help but be aware that I'm the shortest, skinniest, and youngest tribute in this lift, not that District 2 seems to care. He stares dispassionately back at me before a blonde girl breaks the silence.

"What did you do that for?" I turn to her, taking in her soft tan, her smooth, unblemished skin, her thick hair framing her perfect features. She pulls her mouth into a frown as she tries to comprehend exactly why Cato had just pulled the trash into the lift. I have to remind myself that though a girl like her, bred for beauty, fed well all her life and pampered excessively would never be seen in twelve, she's only about average when it comes to pretty girls from One – nothing the sponsors wouldn't have seen before. She doesn't even look at me, like I'm not even there. Cato just shrugs in response.

"It was quicker." He replies, and she looks like she's going to say more but he turns from her, blatantly ignoring her in favour for staring out at the wall. I have to hide my smile at that, her flapping mouth ready to make an angry remark, but she seems to sense that it would be a mistake and when the doors open, she marches out angrily with her district partner. For a second I think I see something on Cato's face, amusement, but then it dies off again. The doors shut again and we zoom up to his floor where he steps out. There's something I want to say to him first though, the strangely courteous and possibly even kind monster before me.

"Hey Cato? I don't trust liars." He turns around to glare at me, his face twisting into anger again, and more surprise than I've ever seen on him before. I shouldn't have said that, but I just don't believe him, and I don't like people who push me around and play games with my head. Then I press the button 12 and the door closes in front of me. _Way to go, Katniss, you just pissed of three out of four Careers!_ And probably the fourth too, thinking of the hard look of hatred in Clove – yes, Clove's eyes when I blazed down the street with Peeta. If I kept this up, I'd be on a roll. Maybe, I could add in the Gamemakers and possibly even Snow. Who knew how many dangerous people I could annoy in the next two weeks?

Cato's POV:

"Prim! Prim! I volunteer! I volunteer as tribute!" The words come gasping out of her mouth, her eyes desperate as the little girl behind her starts to scream and thrash. Would Boza do that, if he were old enough? Would someone, anyone, pull him off like that boy did for Katniss – no, no, not Katniss, she's just District 12; she can never be more than 12 to me. And I definitely shouldn't be huddled here at half past one, replaying her reaping over and over again. I watched a few others too, of course, but only to make myself feel better about it. She was the main attraction, her eyes glinting with the sun highlighting her dark hair. Her faded dress over strong muscles and a healthy frame, if a very skinny and short one. _Beautiful,_ I thought, and then banished the idea. _She's nothing but a threat. Think of your brother._

I sigh, glaring out of habit at the TV, and start skipping through the bit with her drunken mentor to the bit I haven't dared watch yet, even though Clove was furious when she saw it, the Opinion – Caesar Flickerman's end of the day show, discussing all the events of the reaping's and the parade in summarizing details. He tries to get round to everyone, but some tributes would be mentioned almost every time, and it was those tributes who were the ones who got sponsored. I drew in a breath as the cameras panned around and then zoomed in on Caesar, who was receiving a large cheering welcome from the crowd.

"Friends, friends! Oooh, happy Hunger Games! I swear, every time I come sit in this seat the games are more refined, more exciting, and my chair gets even more flattened by my weight. You have to help me out here – do you think my bum looks big like this?" He asks, leaning forwards and posing comically to make the audience laugh hysterically. I roll my eyes and shift around, looking for something to nibble on whilst I wait for the show to start properly. After a few more bad jokes and puns, he lowers his voice to a dramatic whisper whilst I chew on a cracker.

"So, the 74th Hunger Games have finally begun, and what a games it's shaping up to be. The average age for this year is a fantastic sixteen so we can expect some heavy violence in there, and just look at these Careers," the screen instantly changes to photos of the six of us, "they're strong as oxen these boys, and the girls, well they're certainly going to give us something to look at this year! Of course we should never underestimate the underdog, especially with a volunteer from District 12 of all places. Isn't she beautiful? Come on, let's watch her reaping again." The show goes on, District 12 through to District 1, doing short clips and freeze frames of all the reaping's, with commentary and comparisons from Caesar. He praises both me and Clove, saying she's got a 'violent, almost sadistic beauty' which made me laugh out loud – take the almost out, and it'd be a very good summary of her. He says I look brutal and speculates on whether I'll lead the Career pack, which pleases me to no end. Let the others take _that_ in their stride.

And then he introduces his expert guest of the night, who's the designer, ex stylist and famous author of _The Fashion Parade_, one book I never have and never will read. But she sure knows her stuff when it comes to the costumes, writing off 4's wave-like style as a design done by them nineteen years ago, and praising nine's wheat outfit as extremely well pulled off – even I had to admit it was neat in a way, their hair done like bending wheat heads and their bodies as skinny stalks. My heart skipped when they passed straight over me and Clove, fully aware that they only did that when they wanted to specially analyse it. When they got to district 12, the often rowdy crowd fell silent as Caesar gave a well-practised smile and held out his hand to his accomplice, who grinned and took the stage.

"District 12 is known for dull mining costumes such as these, or the even more hideous naked act, such as this." Each time, an image showed on the screen between them, "But this year, they've done something really special. Coal burns – and so they were literally set on fire with bold flames. This is the sort of outfit that makes history. Never has any stylist used this tactic before, there's some talk of the electric act of District 3 forty-eight years ago, but as you know the girl tribute sustained near fatal injuries because of loose wires. And this sort of unity is unique to this couple, the hands raised, the looks, the bubbling feelings there. It leaves us wondering what will happen next, and whether they have any emotional attachment to each other."

My eyes go wide – him and _her_? Seriously, they think that's going to happen, the boy who cried at his reaping and the girl who volunteered? I shake my head at the madness of the Capitol, as though any tribute would be dumb enough to have a relationship in the arena.

"But what about our very own District 2, Cato? He certainly had his eyes on her." Caesar comments and I choke on my cracker. What the hell? Now I know why Clove stormed out about, this looks very, very bad for us. Being associated with the lower districts reflects badly on us now and in the games, it could be the difference between life as a victor and a messy death. Plus it's just plain embarrassing!

She gives a snarky little smile, amusement dancing in her eyes, making me, well, I think indignant – after all, how dare she treat me like a school boy with a crush? That was 12's job, with his little pout and his tears, not mine. But even I can't deny the evidence in front of me, not when they compare us, her blazing through the night air, and me…. Ignoring my duties to glue my eyes to the screen and admire her figure. I keep my mask, sure, I look furious and lethal, but I know what's going on underneath, and Clove and Blare will too. Ouch. It's going to be very, very unpleasant when my mentor sees this.

Silently, I turn the television off, having seen far, far more than enough. I sit in thought, thinking about the girl from 12. She's an inferno of something, passion and a determination that keeps her holding her head strong, and she'd be my type if we weren't in the games. She seemed responsible, loyal and selfless. How could she be anything but gorgeous to me, she was unattainable which made her irresistible. But that didn't matter, not when we were sworn enemies – she would die, and soon. Not because I want it, but because it had to be, for me to go home to Boza, she had to die. I have fourteen years training behind me and I know how to harm things when I don't want to. This will be no different. I can do it, I can kill them all.

I just need to forget that when I have my hands around her neck, her sister will be crying at home, just like my brother would be if things were different. That whilst my brother is young and defenceless he will never starve, he will never be homeless, and for now is still innocent enough not to understand what the spread of red on my chest would mean. Her sister has none of those privileges. Of course the little girl will have her mother and possibly her father, and perhaps that boy was her brother, so she'll be okay. But I've lost my sister to a bad place - and there's no pain equal to it. I will be squeezing a piece of her heart out too.

And when I go home, when I hold my little brother again, I will be carrying that piece of her with me forever, of Katniss's death and her families mourning. I will see the girl's tears in my brother's smile and hear her begging in his laughter. I feel like I'm condemning myself. But in reality, nothing has changed.

_Boza is my brother. District 2 is my home. The Games are my opportunity to put my family right._ And beyond that, I don't need to know a word more. I will save my family, and nothing else matters.

**A/N: Interesting. And rather experimental, this is a short 'why the heck not?' fic I'm doing because I'm well, doing it.**

**Beta'd by the awesome and fabulous **_**Timeyougotawatch**_**, all remaining mistakes are, of course, solely my own. So if you do see a mistake pretty please with a chocolate gateau on top, tell me. That would be wonderful.**

**Reviews are, as all you writer dearies know, the real force behind gravity. Save a giraffe (that doesn't fly off into space) and give me a review, because then I and Giraffie-girl would be very happy. ~ Bloodredfirefly**


	2. First Spark

The first day of training dawns, and I bury my head under the covers. Warmth surrounds me and I snuggle down even further into the soft cocoon. I don't want to get up. I don't want to face _him_. All I want is to stay here forever, or till I'm nineteen and they can no longer send me into the games. I'm completely terrified of everything they can do to me now.

Last night I dreamt of my running feat, slapping across the stones of District 12 to the same beat as my frantic heart. In the reflection off the Mellark Bakery, where an eleven year old Peeta stood hauntingly in the doorway clutching burnt bread, I saw a sword flash, crimson in the morning light. I kicked it into gear, racing away from the blond, blue eyed figure of my rival, skirting round corners as I dove through the streets to get home. Sometimes Cato's steps would fade, but only to reappear just a few feet behind me, hands reaching out to claw me down. I never slowed, only one name vibrating through my mind. _Prim_.

As though she'd been summoned, I pushed round a corner to find not another street, but the cottage in the woods. It was impossible, but I was in dreamland, and I couldn't question it for more than a moment – I forgot the impossibility of the scene even as it happened. My father was there with a young and innocent Prim, a child again who didn't know the pain of starvation. Cato had disappeared and relief flooded me. Home at last. Quietly I stepped out of the shadows and into the clearing.

Prim took one look at me and screamed, the sound blistering my ears, ringing with a hollow sound like a cannon going off in the arena. I looked around for the thing that had scared her so much, but found only myself, and my blood painted hands.

I stared, shocked, repulsed, fascinated, so absorbed that I only heard the rustle of an arrow being notched too late. It flew from my father's bow and hit me in the chest, splitting my skin, though there was no pain. I wavered, my eyes meeting my father's, his memory ringing in my mind. He was the best tracker, the best hunter I'd ever met, but he would never have been a killer like I was. I wanted to shout out to him, tell him I hadn't spilt blood, but the evidence coated my hands and wrists and dammed me guilty. I couldn't even tell him I loved him, that I'd never hurt Prim, because I saw now that she too had a jagged hole in her chest, and that was how she was here, nothing but a memory. My doing. My kill.

My knees gave way and I fell, not onto the hard ground, but into someone's arms. My eyes were still clear but when I rolled my head up to see who it was, I didn't believe them. But Cato brushed a final, tender kiss against my forehead before closing my eyes like I was already gone.

"Sleep, Kat. Go to sleep." And I did, fading into nothingness.

The next thing I knew, I was in my warm bed, with all of Hell still to endure ahead of me. Back in twelve, waking as the sun began to break clear of the horizon would have been normal, something I had done with Gale and half the forest for years. But here silence reigned as the city slumbered on, leaving only my eyes open to the gentle song of the birds. It was nice, not having to worry about friends and foes creeping up on me, to not feel their gazes pinned constantly to my back. For a while I'd just stayed in bed but soon, I'd grown restless and made the ill-fated decision to take another look at the tributes before breakfast, watching the recaps.

At first it had pleased me, the compliments, the flattery and the jokes at my enemies expenses. I knew that Sponsors loved this show, and would watch it avidly. And then it all came crashing down, and I had crawled back to bed, all because they'd suggested 2 had a thing for me. He would be furious at me, for staining his reputation, for making him into some sort of Loverboy, a suggestion that would drag his name through the mud and even if I didn't want it either, I was the only one he could take down. He would take his revenge on me.

A small voice in the back of my mind wondered if it would hurt very much, when he hunted me down. I tried to stamp on it and shut it up but the more I tried to ignore it the louder it got, like a wailing child. I knew, after all, that he wasn't in love with me, so what was to stop him showing the whole world how he didn't care by hurting me? Why make it quick when it would help him to make it slow and painful?

But as much as I want to stay here, wrapped up and protected, I have to face him. And I'd rather not do that with my hair looking like a hay stack and my eyes hazy with sleep – the same reasons I had to keep appearances up when we were starving works here. So pulling my legs up and out of the warm, comfy bed I had so few nights left with, I padded across the room to my bathroom and mirror, undoing my braid as I went. Oh dear. Even I, who never cared for my appearance, knew that it looked…. Miserable.

After a painful and stressful time of trying to wash through and claw out the knots, I swear I'll never sleep with my hair tied and covered in goo again and hurry to breakfast. I'm the first here but I don't wait, munching away on bits of toast and something called smoked salmon, according to a bleary eyed Peeta who joins me soon after. When I ask him why he's up so early, he just shrugs and tells me he would always light the ovens around this time anyway, and then starts asking what I'm doing awake. I end the conversation quickly after that, though he keeps shooting me hopeful glances. Jeez, give a guy an inch and he'll take a mile – one little peck on the cheek and he's looking at me like he wants to kiss me over the breakfast table. Haymitch comes stumbling in just as we're finishing up.

"So," He said, and then pauses, as though trying to find the words through a fog covering his mind. "What do you want to do? Do you have an angle?"

We look at each other blankly. Clearly, neither of us have any idea how to do this, but here was Haymitch expecting us to just tell him. We'd agreed yesterday that we were happy to train together, which saved time at least, even if it would only make it harder in the end – I couldn't help but remember the gossip Gale had told me, how every mentor chose one of the tributes to save, not wasting Sponsor money on us both. Simultaneously we turn back to him and shake our heads. The corner of his lip curls up into almost a smile, and I realise that that was what he expecting and hoping for.

"Fine, in that case, you can use my way. Sweetheart, you're to keep your head down. Learn how to throw a knife at most, focus on traps, fire and camouflage. Nothing that will give away any of your skills, don't go near those bows. Peeta, I want you to use your strength to learn weapons. Only small things, spears, knifes and most especially clubs, that's the only one you'll have a chance at being able to make. Again, no showing off. However," And here he paused, looking us dead in the eyes with a completely sober expression, "you are not to sit together. Nowhere near each other, do not let them think you have an alliance. If you want to that's fine, but act like you've argued since the parade. You can't have them guess any of your secrets."

I have no problem with this, though Peeta looks unhappy, pouting that he doesn't get to spend time with me. I sigh. The debt I owe Peeta is deep and impossible to ignore, but there's something more important to me, and that's going home. I belong to District 12. I belong to its twisting rows of houses, its unpaved roads, its mad traditions and its golden sunrises, the ones that cut through the smoke filled air with beams of light. To the forest with its narrow pathways and secret clearings, all the memories and the hopes and dreams there, the ones I just can't leave. And of course my family, not just because they need me, because they're hungry and need food, but because I want to be with them. I've always thought of my life as like a prison, constricting me, but it's only now that I'm near my death that I realise how much I love the place where I live, how I never want to leave again.

And so I have no problem with Haymitch's advice. I'll do it, partly because I have to go home, but mostly because I desperately want to.

Cato POV:

They're late, and I pretend not to care. No – I don't care. I lock it away, ignore it, and find a place down in the depths of my mind, where I can drown all thoughts of the Girl on Fire. Beside me, Clove is almost twitching with annoyance that we're being delayed by them. Not me though. No emotion appears on my face aside from cocky arrogance and confidence, because instead of a mask like Clove wears, I have a second skin, mimicking true feelings so it all looks natural. Clove was able to do that once, to charm and play coy, before she broke and became bitter. Sometimes I think she can't hide anything anymore, even now swinging her head with impatience, but neither can she feel. Our head trainer seems unconcerned with their tardiness, so clearly, they haven't over stepped the boundaries yet, we're all just silly and we've arrived too early.

Stupid rats from 12. The lift pings open and I can hear them step out, I can feel the subtle movement in the room as everyone swings round to face them. I spare them a glance, a bored look before I turn back to our trainer. My God, I had forgotten how small she was. That brought a smirk to my face, one I couldn't fight back. In the darkness of the streets, being pulled by coal black horses with the crowd chanting her name, she had appeared majestic, invincible. Flushed from the high of being the favoured one, and the adrenaline kick of being in a lift with a pack of predators had made her seem larger than life, wild and untameable. Even volunteering for her sister she was determined, passionate, ruling over and commanding the respect of a queen through her humble actions. Now, on level ground, she is small, unintimidating, unnoticeable and weak. How quickly, without ever comprehending her actions, without every consciously making a choice, she has went from radiant to ignorable.

She isn't beautiful, not dazzling the way Glimmer is as she sidles up to me, a flirty smile on her painted lips, smiling and asking if I'd do the honour of going to the knives section with her. Clearly I've missed the whole introduction speech but I find that I don't care that much, not really, after all it's already been pounded into me again and again – train longer, live longer. So I smirk, loop an arm around her waist and head with her to do some exercises. She can't keep up with me, or maybe's she's just pretending she can't, that her aim is weak and her reactions slow. This is the Games after all, and even though we're allies, you can't trust anyone for their first impression.

"Little piece of slime, that one," Clove says in a haughty tone when Glimmer goes to practise archery. Even I, an eighteen year old who's never touched a bow in my life, knows that her stance and grip are all wrong. "Best use for her is cannon fodder for the bloodbath." A sharp edge reaches her voice, not cruel or blood thirsty, but how I've always imagined the voices of the dead to be like. Harsh and thin like wire, and so cold.

"Easy there, Clove. She's pretty, she'll get us sponsors."

"Sponsors? How? Are you going to fall in love with her?" The tone is mocking now, dangerous, lethal. There's no amusement in there at all. "She'll look best dead or dying, not flouncing around and getting in the way."

I just roll my eyes. There's little point arguing with Clove anymore, and as long as you wait patiently, she normally has to bow to the best course of action – or you're wrong, and she saves both your skins. She is no less intelligent for her mental breakdown, just more heartless. In some ways her grasp of human emotion has improved, because she isn't clouded by her own feelings anymore – they simply don't exist.

We continue to work in silence as we practise reactions before moving on to the next station, the swords, which makes titchy little Clove growl and me smile. This is my home, this place of metals and blades that cut through bone, weapons that most tributes would struggle to even lift. This is my sanctuary, my key to winning. And anyway, what Sponsor doesn't love a muscular, handsome master at swordplay? The other Careers are loud and obnoxious on the other side of the room, and I send Clove over to join them when she gets grouchy at being beaten by me. It doesn't matter that I'm not with them, all the tributes known I'll be leading the pack. So for now I just focus on the swing of my sword, nothing can distract me now. Well, almost nothing.

A young volunteer, studiously working at fire making station, sitting just in front of the sword rack, her entire figure swaying as she clashed the rocks together to get sparks. Yeah, that might have caught my attention a little.

I nod to the trainer, who is about as good as I am despite being ten years older, and pace over. Stupid, stupid, stupid, I shouldn't be doing this. And yet, I still am.

"Hello firegirl," I whisper, sitting quietly down beside her. She jumps but her lips clamp shut and a moment later, all her muscles are locked in place. Interesting, her first instinct has been trained so it isn't fight or flight, and nor does she yell for help. No sound escapes her mouth as she stares at me in surprise. As she sits immobile, I reach out my hands for the pair of rocks she holds.

At this, she recoils, her lips bearing back into a hissing snarl that she only stops at the last moment. She doesn't let go off the flints she holds though, and I carefully withdraw my hands.

"If you want to try fire making, there are stones in the box, as well as lots of other things to help you learn." A nervous voice says from beside us. A shy young man, thin as a twig, stands there wringing his hands. Her expression doesn't soften she sees him, but her eyes do, and she turns quietly back to her work. He's young and pale, and I'm sure he'd snap if I got my arms around him right, muscle holding sheer advantage here. I see him gulp slightly when I stare him down – of all the things to do with your life, mastering fire making techniques seems a little pointless.

But I reach out anyway and, giving our trainer a look that makes him quickly scurry away, I try to light a fire. Let's just say it doesn't work well. The rocks, which I'd presumed would light within a few seconds, the way 12's did, stay cold and unresponsive. I couldn't believe how difficult this was. My knuckles grate themselves on the sides and I use all of my considerable strength to make it light, but it still fails. I want to prove I can do it but I'm getting no-where, not even a flicker or spark appeared, and there was no way I was calling Sticky the fire maker over for _help_.

"You're not doing it right, move over." I looked up in surprise to see 12's grey eyes stare back at me, defiant, challenging and slightly exasperated. Her slender but scarred hands reach out to grip my own, adjusting my grip and making my chilled fingers just a little warmer. She doesn't look directly at me again but sits right next in front of me, helping me.

"You put this finger here, like this, and tilt your wrist like that to get the force. Remember you're not trying to bash the rocks themselves, but to make a spark, one quick movement is better than lots of brute strength." She reads out instructions to me in a disinterested mono tone, expertly correcting me till, after a few blotched tries, a tiny flash of light appears. Excitement and triumph bubble within me, even though the patch of dry grass remains stubbornly unlit. For a second, it occurs to me how stupid it is that I was never taught this at the Academy, never prepared. In the Games where the cornucopia has only weapons, the Career pack dies out quickly, surviving only on sparse sponsor gifts and odds and ends found on killed tributes. I don't think a Career has ever won when they aren't given food, shelter and everything in between, so why were we only trained with weapons?

"Why are you doing this?" I ask as she pushes my hands lower, and builds up the pile so the spark has a chance at becoming an inferno.

"Because you were loud and annoying, of course." She replies boldly, and for a second I feel about two centimetres tall. Then I catch the slight clench of her jaw, and I smirk.

"I thought you didn't trust liars," I whisper quietly, throwing her own words back in her face. She blinks, stares at me, and then abruptly moves to get up and walk away from me. Lightning fast I grab her wrist, dropping the rough stone. Her expression is one of a pure, unnameable emotion, like fury but not directed at me. I let nothing but contempt show in my eyes.

"Meet me up on the roof tonight, after dinner. We need to talk."

"I don't want to, you're a Career." She says it like it's the most foul, evil word she knows. She looks remarkably innocent when she says it, and I chuckle.

"You have nothing to lose."

"Aside from my life." She points out, endearingly small beside my large frame.

"No firegirl, you've already lost that."

**MASSIVE THANK YOU TO THE EXCEPTIONALLY AWESOME **_**'TIMEYOUGOTAWATCH'**_** FOR FABOULOUS BETA SKILLS! READ HER PROFILE, IT WILL CONVINCE YOU SHE IS AWESOME!**

**A/N: Wow, I love writing in Caps, it's so refreshing. Side note – I have no idea how to light a fire from rocks, so please, if the zombies come to your house and you die because my advice wasn't good enough, sorry. But I take no liability and will sue if you decide to haunt me from the next world.**

**Oh, and here's a motive to review, **_**I'll review you're fic if you review mine! **_**I consider it sharing the love. And please, check out my other fic 'Phoenix In A Gale', it could use some love, plus I also have a few fairly pointless one-shots. I've included my favourites :)**

**Phoenix In A Gale** - "As a reminder to the rebels that their family's suffered alongside them, the male and female tributes will be reaped from the relatives of last year's tributes." And that's why Gale Hawthorn fought, forgave, loved and lost his life in the 75th Hunger Games. It's how he fell for a Career who was dangerous and cruel but honest and real. Who said sacrifice is pretty?

**Burning Rain** – With Gale, there is no right or wrong. There is no questions, or doubts, or fears, just the love that tied them together like the twine of a snare. Because she is his and he is hers, it just took a whipping to make her realise that. One-shot.

**Ring Me In Sky Circles** - 'Loss has changed me, but my future has remade me and my past is but shadows to me now' - Annie, on one dark night, when she abandons her slippers and her crows and stops watching from her window. Winner of the 'The Hunger Awards' December One-Shot.


	3. When We Are United

When We Are United

The apartment is never silent. There's always been music playing in the background, glasses clinking, the TV showing some Capitol soap. I couldn't understand it last night, why they needed so much sound, but now – now I get it.

The emptiness is like death. When the Games are over, if we both die, this is what the apartment will sound like to Haymitch and Effie. There'll be no words, and they'll switch the TV off, and they'll sit surrounded by luxury, with two empty bedrooms that kids won't sleep in tonight. Haymitch has done this twenty three times, Effie at least ten, probably more. However hard they try not to show it, they've tried to protect child after child after child, and always failed. They've always been silenced.

Can he remember them? The thought hits me like a punch, making my fists clench. He's mentored forty-six tributes; can he remember all their names? He's drunk so much of the time, always so determined that he won't feel anything.

I got drunk once when I was fourteen; Ripper gave me a free bottle one winter, when she saw that the catch had been bad yet again. I carried it with me on the next day's hunt, and when I caught nothing, I drank it really quickly from halfway up a tree. I wanted to be numb, so I wouldn't remember how hungry Prim was at home, how I'd failed her. I got sick, I got scared, and I collapsed on the ground after falling from the branches. I could have died on the forest floor and I was dam lucky I didn't, though in the morning my head pounded and when I stumbled my way home, I found Prim was hysterical, thinking I was dead.

I couldn't see how being drunk helped him, but apparently it did. And really, did it matter if the whole world could remember the dead tributes from twelve? If there were memorials, if all of Panem cried for them and told twelve's story to their children, if the memory was passed down forever, did it matter? They were still gone, and nothing could help them once they were dead.

But we weren't dead yet, Peeta and I. And that's why there's music – to remind Haymitch that there's still hope. The Games haven't started, so why did this place feel like a grave yard? I stand there, frozen on the threshold, trying desperately to think of an answer. Idly I consider calling to see if someone answers, but I know without being told that our friends aren't with us now. Behind me Peeta tries the lift button, but it stays dark and unyielding. Years of hunting had fine-tuned my instincts, and they're screaming that something's here that shouldn't be, a danger and a threat.

I walk as confidently as I can round the corner. Maybe it's not clever, not sensible to go first when Peeta is better at staying calm, better at persuading, and better in a fist fight. But I don't want to be seen as hiding behind him. I've never been dependant on anyone, not even the Capitol, and I don't intend to start being weak now.

Of course, all reasoning disappears from my mind when I see who's waiting for me.

"Seneca Crane." The words fly from my mouth before I can stop them, and I clamp down on my tongue. I'm whirled back to a time in school, when a Capitolian came to 12 to teach us about the Games. Mostly it was useless information, lies about honour or the brave history of our noble Presidents. But he gave us a list of backstage rules, things that couldn't happen to 'ensure the Games fairness, symbolic of our Nation striving to create the equality deserved.'

No fighting between tributes pre-Games. No leaving the area you've been told to be in. No taking objects from areas, like swords from the training centre. And utterly no interaction, of any kind, between tributes and Gamemakers. Ever.

And yet here was the Head Gamemaker, lounging on my sofa. His beard's cut elaborately, in the same swirly, spiky way he'd worn it on TV, his hand wrapped around an empty glass of wine, his brown eyes sharp and analysing. Swallowing, I try to find something to say – but even Peeta is tongue tied. Crane watches us clinically, like we're biology experiments, about to illustrate some theory that's already been proved and written in a text book. Like he already knows all the answers but thinks it'll be fun to cut us up anyway.

"If you don't mind me asking sir, why are you here?" Peeta asks, his voice calm and polite – I envied his way with words so much.

"I'm afraid Peeta, that's not for you to know," Crane's voice is soft, sympathetic, and unquestionable. "Go ahead and meet your mentors on the ground floor, Katniss will join you very shortly. And remember to tell them maintenance told you to leave, that's why they believe they can't be here. "

"No, Peeta stays with me," I say, not sure of its bravery or cowardice that makes me speak against him. I know I don't feel brave. Crane's eyes widen – he must be very unused to being refused – but I don't want to be alone with him. Even if it's just Peeta, I want someone there as a witness. "He's a friend, I trust him. Whatever you have to say in front of me can be said in front of him."

"Katniss my dear, in two days you'll be in the arena. This is a talk of strategic importance, and even if you have an alliance, the sad reality is that it won't last forever."

"Peeta stays on this floor," I say stubbornly, and his eyes narrow dangerously, but I hold my ground.

"As you wish. In your own interest though, if he could wait in his room, he'll still be able to _protect_ you from me, but he won't overhear anything." His voice, now impossible soft and threatening, sends shivers down my spine.

Behind me, a bewildered Peeta nods his head and slips round the corner to hide away. I don't feel any sense of great loss now he's out of sight, I honestly feel safer. I don't have to worry about him doing or saying anything that could harm my family or me, and I'm not alone with a Gamemaker. The Gamemaker, the Head. The sinister, mysterious figure that we saw on our screens yearly for the games, always talking in riddles and leaving little clues – cues that devastated families and left them with gaping holes for years and years.

I refill his glass and walk steadily back round the counter, trying to will my hands to stop shaking. It doesn't work and the liquid trembles inside its ornate container, making a little smile rise to his lips as he takes it from me casually, easily. I sit down on the opposite couch and fold my hands, feeling like a child about to be scolded.

"You really are an eye catcher, Katniss, and lots of people have noticed your beauty. Some of the richest in the land have expressed how much they would like to see you win, so they could spend more time with you," he said, and his eyes gleam with mirth. I hate him for it. "I hope you understand that your life could be very unpleasant if you come out, and there're are very few things you can do to stop this."

I say nothing, only waiting for him to make his point, silently shaking from head to toe. In my chest, my heart rate picks up, pounding in my ears, a constant reminder of everything I have to lose. That Prim and Gale are also being threatened doesn't even need to be said.

"There is someone else who's also taken a liking to you though, or at least the Capitol believes he has. Did you watch Caesar's show? Well, the little image of Cato admiring you has been greatly twisted by the press, and it now appears that he's in love with you. A pity for a Career's reputation to be so blighted, but the whim of the public must be obeyed. Everyone is waiting for your reply, and unless you want to get to know the Capitol's people more intimately, I suggest you tell them you return his feelings."

It takes me a moment to understand the malice in his eyes, and then the world fractures in two. Part of me, the part that volunteered for Prim and risked the noose to hunt for my family, has already accepted. But it's like that part of me is my hand, and it's dropped its weapons and allowed itself to be chained to a sinking boat. I thrash, I scream, I howl as I try to escape but short of cutting off my hand and tearing out my heart, I can do nothing. Crane's plan, soaked in pretty turns of phrase, is designed to kill me. If I pretend to love Cato then I almost commit suicide, I will be walking with the wolf and just waiting for it to run out of other prey.

"Cato –"

"Has already agreed, as I'm sure you will. The details of your romantic relationship are up to you. Just remember what hangs in the balance of your acting skills, and that unfortunately there are many ways to harm a child without killing them. It would be dreadfully unfortunate for your sister to have, perhaps, a stroke? We wouldn't want you to come back and find that you're lack of enthusiasm has put your sister in a wheelchair for life."

Bile gathers in my throat, and as much as I try to choke it down, I'm suffocating under his dark gaze. Cruelly, he smiles. The image is too much to bear – me dead at Cato's hand, my mother catatonic and lifeless, Prim starving and trapped. No-one able to save her as she withers away, not quite dead, nowhere near living. Lurching upright I run out to the bathroom and throw up, the heaving, acidic feeling nearly foreign to me. I haven't even caught a bug since I was a child, even though I lived in a dirt haven. My head span but the memory of his words rings in my ears still, and even when Peeta drops down beside me and gathers up my hair, I can't bear to move.

Eventually the heaving stops and I'm propped up against Peeta as he strokes my head. Pain slices through me as I realise how vulnerable I am, and I struggle to my feet, shooing him away. I belong to Cato now, as does my family. I can have nothing to do with the boy with the bread.

"Katniss –"

"Go, just go. Is he still here? And where's Haymitch when you need him?" I ask rhetorically, already moving, my long stride leading me to my room as Peeta trails behind me. I desperately need to wash out my mouth and I head to the sink, gulping under the tap.

"He's gone," he says kindly, "and I don't know where Haymitch is exactly . The ground floor?" I ignore him and pull out a jacket from my wardrobe, pushing past when he looks like he's about to talk. I don't want his pity or his sympathy or even to hear his voice. I'll kill him happily if he asks me questions right now.

"I'm going to the roof," I mutter, fully aware that he's insulted and wants an apology, "I'll be down for dinner."

Heading quickly up the steps, I push through the door, not caring about how loud I am. The wind hits me in the face, cold and relentless – but comforting and familiar too. The Capitol clothes are little protection, nothing compared to my father's hunting jacket and sturdy boots. The view is phenomenal. It's a blindingly beautiful day and the sun shines on the glass towers, the streets wide and clean – across the city is the horizon and the mountains, rising again and again in every direction. I step out, going closer and closer to the edge to take in the distant horizon and valleys of snow and trees.

There must be animals there, hundreds of them. Squirrels and rabbits and deer – and maybe more exotic things, like the antlered creatures drawn in tattered school books. Yes, there would be wolves and bears but there was a whole forest out on those mountains, full of creatures I could hunt. A food source to feed the hungry of twelve, large enough to never run out, even if there were a hundred hunters there. I sigh. My next kill will be a child, not a squirrel. And the woods, if they're there, will become the place where I take the lives of innocents and condemn myself to a life of nightmares.

My life can be boiled down to three options. The first, the simplest, is that I die. If I die inconspicuously, perhaps in the blood bath, then the rumours will die with me and Prim will be left alone. She'll be hungry and alone and unprotected, but she'll be able to live her life. One day, though I selfishly hope that she'll never forget me, she will move on and settle down with children of her own.

The second option is to fight, against Cato, against the Games, against anyone who comes my way. I will almost certainly die this way too – Crane is no man to defy, known for ruthlessly setting a scorpion on the tribute that slandered him and letting them scream for a day and a night in the blazing heat. Even if he allows me to win, I don't fancy being his puppet, a Capitol whore like Finnick. And to add to my shame, my sister will be tormented till she succumbs to whatever disease he unleashes on her.

My third, final option is to do as I'm told and hope for the best. To pretend to love a man who I barely know and who certainly wouldn't hesitate to kill me. To somehow learn how to flirt, despite years of spurning boys completely – there is a reason why I've never had a boyfriend. Cato for whatever reason is also happy to dance the dance, but that cannot last forever – at some point it will be okay to kill me, and he will make his move.

"Oh look, is the Girl on Fire getting scared?" The sarcastic voice is unmistakable but I look round anyway, my eyes going wide when I realise that I'm completely alone with him. Cato leans against a metal pillar, his frame bulky and three times the size of mine – he's like a mirage conjured in a desert from wishful thinking, only I don't want him here or anywhere near me. Beautiful blonde hair lies in a disorderly array atop his head, and his clear blue eyes stare into mine uncompromisingly. His mouth is twisted into a savage smirk, and I have the sinking feeling that he's about to make me squirm – like a cat with a mouse whose chosen to play.

"So, fire-girl," he says as he saunters over, "tell me about yourself. Any hobbies, any habits? Do you generally pick up boys in your spare time or is it just on special occasions?"

"I don't pick up boys at all, actually," I spit out, but this just makes him laugh.

"Ooh, so who was your friend at the reaping? He seemed a little keen? Is he your boyfriend or just your admirer? Do I have competition?" Somehow he's walked me backwards so I'm cornered a few paces away, watching me like I'm a dying animal. "Don't play the whole innocent act with me. I see right through all of your crap."

"What crap, Cato? I wasn't the one who decided to leer in front of all the Capitol," I snap, and it's clear I've hit a weakness as his face flashes with anger and annoance. "Perhaps if you'd spent a little more time focusing and a little less admiring, we wouldn't be in this mess."

A look of fury completely contorts his face now, and then my back is against the concrete and his hands are rough on my shoulders, sliding down to my arms. I gasp, terrified as he pins me there – not intimately, not in an embrace, but cold and aloof. My legs are trapped so I can't jerk up my knees but he holds his torso away so he can look at me. Ice blue eyes stare into mine and even now, with his lips set in a smirk and his jaw clenched, he has an unearthly attraction, like something pulls me to him. The same way I both compete with and admire the wolves that hunt alongside me.

"Do you have any skills fire-girl?"

"No," I lie automatically, and I curse myself as his eyebrow rises. "Well, I'm okay with a bow, a bit shaky; I've never been out of 12's compound."

"Fine. You stay with us, okay? I'll pass it by the other Careers; you're our new sponsor toy. Once we're in the arena you'll go nowhere and do nothing, no running off, no leaving me or trying to kill me –"

"I'm hardly going to stab you in the back, am I? If I was refusing Crane then I wouldn't even be here." My voice has taken on a strange ice-like quality and I can see how much it pisses him off, as his eyes narrow to slits.

"And above all, you do as I _say_, and you follow my lead. I'm the one who's trained for this, so you back off and keep your mouth shut if you know what's good for you and your family." His grip on my arms gets tighter and I struggle against him, snarling for the first time in my life, a blistering sound from my throat. He relaxes – but his hands loosen down to my wrists, pulling them towards him and placing them on his hips. One look tells me that he'll make my life a living hell if I don't shut up and do as I'm told.

Loosely, my fingers find his belt loops and hang there as his hands travel back up my arms, starting slowly but speeding up over my jacket, finding my shoulders and then my exposed neck. His eyes never release their grip on me and I get the strangest feeling, like there's two Katniss's standing here. One is furious and petrified at the same time, in full fight or flight mode, intensely aware of the warm of his slightly calloused palms resting on my skin, and how easily he could snap my neck like this. But the other – the Katniss that does nothing, says nothing, thinks nothing, and looks only into the crazy blue of his eyes is ruling me. Caught, not like a rabbit struggling to break free or stone still when it sees its predator, but willingly, waiting – the weirdest sense of safety fills me and even though I _know_ he's a monster, a creep, I can't believe he'll hurt me.

That Katniss is proved both wrong and right as his lips come gently down to touch mine, warm, soft and unfamiliar. It's more of a press than a kiss, even when I tilt my head and flutter my eyes closed, unable to stop myself. He's so hesitant, brushing one hand behind my hair, holding me there with a graciousness I would never have foresaw – automatically my hands are tighter on his hips and he's somehow closer, flat against me. It's him who breaks our prolonged touch, but him who keeps us there, suspended for a single, tender moment. We both know how wrong it would be to push this, that we're enemies and enemies don't kiss like this, but stopping means facing each other and the cold fragility of reality. Precariously we balance there, before he releases me and my hands withdraw themselves from his clothes so we have a careful no-touching zone.

He looks away and takes a few steps back, staring out at nowhere. It's then that I realise how he hadn't planned that, hadn't expected to kiss me at all. We were both wildly out of control, hopeless passengers in a vehicle taking a suicidal path. If he'd had his way, that wouldn't have happened at all – which somehow makes it so much more special to me.

"I better go. Tell your mentor that you're joining the Career alliance. I'll see you tomorrow." He turns to walk away, but there's no way I'm letting him get away with that.

"Actually, I won't. If it's all the same to you I'll tell him I've been offered a place, and I'll weigh up my options before I reply." His glare is deadly, like acid as that same, deformed smirk comes to his face again.

"You have no options, fire-girl." I just roll my eyes at the irritating nickname.

"I think I do. After all, I don't have to be with you, just in love with you. I could easily go out on my own and then pine for you, maybe find an ally I can talk with, tell all my love-sick troubles to." Rue pops into my head immediately but I let nothing show in my face, trying to match his blank expression, void of anything but arrogance.

"You'd never survive. We wouldn't even need to hunt you down, you'd starve to death." His voice is scornful, and I realise that he'd swallowed my earlier lie hook, line and sinker. I smile calmly.

"Perhaps. But personally, I don't fancy my chances as your little pet either, hanging around till you find some way to kill me off and then mourn over my dead body. I may be ready to die for my sister if I have to but I'm not going to lie down and let you get on with it." For a second I think he looks stunned, impressed even, but then it disappears and he rolls his eyes like I'm a stubborn child.

"Whatever. I'm leaving, you can go dance around the answer with someone else. Maybe your little district partner will be willing?" He didn't seem interested in my answer and stalked away, leaving me alone and watching the shadows as they danced with the wind. The over tended garden, beautiful though it is, could only be a reminder of the Capitol – and the way they bent everything to fit.

Cato POV:

Why, why did that happen? Why was I so _weak_?

It hadn't felt like weakness. It had felt unbearably normal, like for that one moment we could've be more than just a pair of tributes playing a twisted, fucked up, suddenly personalised game – so maybe it wasn't a weakness like mercy is a weakness, but a delusion. If I hadn't been there, if I hadn't been the one holding her – loosely, slightly, nothing to the crushing embrace a part of me craved – I would have thought I'd gone insane. But the pull of it was like having something taken physically from my hands. I couldn't resist her and things just spiralled out of the control, and propelled me towards her.

She could have asked me to do anything right then, and I probably would have done it.

I've never really had a proper relationship, or any relationship at all. 2's so uptight about the proper way to do things, and though I understand the whole 'don't get pregnant before marriage!' fear, it sucks when you're a guy trying to get a date. The only girls who'll go for it don't live at the Academy or tend to be suicidal. I've dated a few of the latter, and whilst I loved their 'live for today' motto at first, I fell out with them all pretty quickly. They didn't understand why I worked so hard, why I spent so long in the gym, and why I would never take their drugs, smoke or booze.

None of those girls had half of Katniss's attraction for me. They were feral creatures, so wild they were beautiful, but uncoordinated and with no self-respect. I wanted more. I wanted the Girl on Fire.

I'd reached the bottom of the stairs, which led to the lift. Earlier, Crane had come down to speak to me, a gleeful smile on his face as he informed me that I had my work cut for me, and that I was in for one hell of a ride. I'd no idea what he was talking about, and couldn't work out where everyone had gone – till he told me that Boza would live a life of unspeakable horrors if I failed, before he personally made sure he was reaped into an arena of torment. All I had to do to save my brother was fake a relationship with Katniss, a relationship that would get me Sponsors anyway. He made it sound so simple, so easy.

Of course, one problem was impossible to get around.

"What about her death? I can't kill her, not if they think I'm in love with her, sir," I asked, horrified at the idea of having to die so my brother could live a bad life, only fractionally better than whatever evil Seneca planned.

"Ah, well, that is sensitive. You see we both agree she has to die; she'd be a terrible Victor, nowhere near as honourable as you. However the Capitol cannot kill her either, as it would be distasteful for us to be seen as cruel – so you just take advantage of any opportunity you need to, and we'll back you." It sounded like them ducking out and hiding behind me but it wasn't a question, so I thanked him and dropped the matter.

Later, Brutus had arrived back, enraged at the decisions and blaming me for it. Though it certainly wasn't the worst beating I'd ever had, it surprised me – my shoulders still ached, and I cursed the fact that they'd still be sore when I went into the arena. He gave me what I thought was good advice, to cut her off from any emotions between us, to intimidate and scare her. Whatever it took, just to control her – I did exactly what he said, and ended up pressed against her, my lies hanging in the air as she gave me my first meaningful kiss, then openly rebuffed me, refused me.

There's no way I'm telling him about that. I will do what I have to do, whether it's kill children or play lover-boy. Boza is a child. And I will protect him with everything I have, because he matters most.

I ignore the memory that replays in my mind, a little blond girls terrified screech, because it doesn't matter that Katniss's death could well mean her sister's too. Or at least – it doesn't matter as much, because she's not my sister and never will be.

**A/N: There is, and absolutely never will be, any excuse as to why this is so late. I am so, so ashamed to give this to you now and I can only hope you accept my most humble apologies.**

**However if you don't feel like strangling me as you have so much right to do, then please check out my forum. *Hint hint, nudge nudge*.**

**It's an open competition, YOU DON'T NEED TO WRITE ANYTHING, it can be something you've done earlier, so go ahead and enter it! The link is HERE: forum/The-Roses-of-War-Forum/128134/**

**Good luck! (And you don't have to review this chapter, I haven't been good to you – so I do understand).**


	4. To Mentor

**To Mentor**

Katniss POV:

There was no water leak requiring all of floor twelve to be evacuated after training, and everyone but Effie had known that. It didn't take a genius to work out that the Peacekeepers Elite would have had no place directing the mentor, the escort and the stylists to the ground floor – it didn't even take someone of average intelligence to note that all of the 'leaked water' had just disappeared. But some people defied the laws of gravity, so despite their brains being so empty they were vacuums, they continued to walk around among the normal people without floating about the ceiling.

"Oh, isn't this marvellous! Look what a lovely job maintenance have done for us, Katniss, aren't you glad? And so promptly too," Effie simpers and bobs away to get herself a drink, her wig swaying from side to side with each step. It takes all of my self-control not to throttle myself and her right then.

"If you think that's bad, you haven't heard her complain about being shunted out of the apartment 'like cattle', bloody vulgar woman," Haymitch says with distaste, the ever present whisky bottle clutched in his hand. His eyes land on the coffee table where Crane has kindly left his wine cup, the light twinkling off its intricate surface – sure, it could have been an accident, but I immediately know that he put it there, knowing it would be noticed, knowing it would be asked about. To remind me what my silence can cost me everything I have and care for and that he expects every single one of us – mentor, escort, stylist, tribute – to take part in his little games.

Peeta hurries forward to carry it away, to hide it somewhere obscure or give it to an avox – as though destroying of the army's messenger will halt the attack. It gets rid of him at least and as soon as he's turned the corner, I'm pulling Haymitch along, tugging him through to the corridor and kicking him into his room. It reeks awfully but he doesn't seem to even notice it.

"Look who's having a tizzy," he mutters before dropping into one of the squishy armchairs, obviously meant for these kinds of conversations. I push the empty bottles off of my own and sit opposite him, wrinkling my nose at the offending stink. _Think of Prim_, _you have to protect her,_ I tell myself mentally.

"I got invited to join the Careers today, by Cato," I blurt out, like snapping a rabbits neck to stop it suffering, and the effect is instantaneous. A grin – a genuine, gleeful grin breaks over his face – and he puts his bottle down on the table in between us.

"The Careers? My God, Katniss, that's brilliant. Dangerous, but if you could get to the Cornucopia, get a bow and then leg it…. You could even ruin their supplies before you leave…."

"No. I couldn't. I should probably rephrase, Seneca Crane came to both of us and he wants us to pretend to be in love, otherwise Prim will suffer. And then Cato was on the roof and he was in my space and he was telling me what to do…." I blanch at telling my mentor that we kissed and it felt like tasting electricity, "and it was stupid and immature but I told him that I would only think about an alliance." For a moment, there's silence as he absorbs my words – though some little alarm bell in my head says that he's been through so much with every tribute, that he's already prepared himself for anything. For a tributes death, and for days of agony beforehand.

"So… you have to love Cato?"

"Yes. I mean, I said I could just yearn for him from afar – but when it's Prim, when they'd give her a disease and make her life a misery till kingdom come, I have to go with him. I just wanted to show him that he couldn't push me aside."

"I get it. He'll use you like a puppet if he can girl, so you better watch out. Seriously though, you talked with Seneca Crane?"

"Yeah, haven't you met him?"

"On my Victory Tour, I met Gamemakers. And a few times after that I saw Crane himself, though never when he was 'top dog'. Supposedly to make it fair, no mentor or stylist or tribute can meet a Gamemaker from the first reaping to the coronation, though that's just ridiculous as the higher districts invite anyone of importance round during the year – I wouldn't be surprised if your boy Cato is on first name terms with half of them. They go to tours of the Academy you see, and then Two stuff's them full of food and throws firework displays in their honour." His face contorts slightly, like he's remembering something bitter.

I sigh. The odds, as ever, are stacked against me. If the Gamemakers are rooting for Cato then I'm in deep, deep trouble with very little way of getting out of it – perhaps the worst of the Games was that you couldn't plan for it, only prepare. I could make a strategy and have an angle but I could never dictate how things would go – everything else, everyone else would be getting in my way. With a million possibilities you have no ground to walk on, no air to breathe – they take away your future.

"You're going to have to talk to him," he advises me, which is rich coming from an old drunk – but I nod along anyway. "We need to do this the proper way. Alliances are messy and complicated, full of back stabbing and false deals. But mentors always agree that some things can't be done, and if they are, then funds get cut off completely to that tribute. Do you remember the cannibal kid a few years back? He was our first major failure in twenty years. It used to be common place, all sorts of obscene things happened, rapes, slow torture, something called the finger trade – now the Capitol would call that indecent but they loved it back then. So every alliance is now formalised with certain rules."

"You want to formalise it? What's the point; he'd never go home if he started cutting my finger off, not if he's my _lover_."

"Well, you'd be the one cutting off the finger – but I'm serious, with Cato tied down to you it would be intelligent as this point for Brutus to back Clove." Seeing my puzzled look, he gives me a grim smile. "Mentors always pick a tribute to support with sponsor money, even if we don't put all our eggs in one basket we don't waste – and I chose you the moment you got on the train. Stabbing near my fingers like that – you would have done it, if you needed to. You would have cut me into pieces to go home to your sister and still would."

I just nod. I would do that – to him, to Cato, to an innocent kid even if it broke my heart.

"So what, we go down there now or…" I hate not knowing what to do. Haymitch shakes his head and takes another gulp of liquor, leaning back and closing his eyes. Though it's only evening and still daylight outside I doubt we'll be seeing much of him for a very long time, only in the lull between being hung-over and being drunk.

"Tomorrow. Nothing wrong with a bit of cat and mouse but in the morning we'll go down to his floor and lay it all on the table. Now you don't have many skills that don't…. connect to each other. Plant identification is useless to a Career so the only strong card you have is your bow – and if they know about that, they'll know you can feed yourself anyway."

"But he'll take my bow. He'll never let me keep it, not if it can help me."

"He'll have to. He needs sponsor money so he needs you to be able to fight with him and not be a weakness – and since you're 'in love', he has to let you protect yourself, because he has to seem to care for your safety. See it as a plus point that he's the male – if you run from a fire he's trapped in, you're a maiden and he's sacrificing himself for you. If he runs then he's a coward, he's abandoned his love, he's worse than dirt." I nod, though I know that he will never die for me. Out in the hallway Effie calls for us and Haymitch rolls his eyes. I get up with a sigh and go to the door, kicking rubbish out of my way as I go, but then I pause.

"Do the avox'es not clean your room?" I ask and he looks around disinterestedly.

"They do, just at night. This is today mess, sweetheart." Shaking my head in amazement I duck out the door, muttering a thanks behind me. I don't like Haymitch's honest, almost friendly plan – to play right into Cato's hands. But I can think of nothing better so I just go along with it.

I join them for dinner and tell them Haymitch isn't feeling well – they just seem to accept it as the norm, Effie tutting away for a while and then we all stuff our mouths for a while. Peeta watches me closely all through the meal and I can tell he expects an apology, but I need distance. I need to separate him as the boy with the bread from him as the opponent in the arena – that was many years ago and whilst he may be all friendly now, it will be a different story in the games. Even the strongest alliances crumble faced with starvation and mistrust, and anyway, he could never protect me there.

_Cato could,_ I think suddenly, remembering the way he chucked swords around and beat down rubber enemies, every muscle in his body geared towards killing. _He could protect me completely, but he won't, because that would be hurting his own chances of survival. _I think of Haymitch's idea and imagine him as my knight in shining armour, and laugh privately to myself, mostly because the idea appeals more than it should. I excuse myself before the rich pudding and find a gossip channel on the TV – sure enough, newscasters are gushing over whether we might have a relationship like they know everything about us. I switch it off when they start debating what our 'ship name' should be and go to bed, Peeta's eyes following me as ever as I go down the corridor and into my room. Though unfamiliar, the sheets are warm and soft and everything is tidy – I tuck myself under the covers, and then I'm off like a light.

Haymitch POV:

"What's it like? Your home life?" I ask, sipping a whiskey, rolling it over my tongue and swallowing. After years of intoxication the burn down my throat has become little more than a tickle, but it still numbs the pain so I keep drinking. The woman in front of smiles tightly, like she finds my question intrusive but expects nothing more than a drunk – I'm very, very used to that look.

"I was brought up by strict parents and I follow their example. I find I'm more conservative than my peers, more loyal to my country, more confined in how I think. I like to be careful in what I say because I've been taught by my mother that careless words cause punishments. My father is a strong man but caring, the best refuge in the house was always with him. Oh, and I don't drink. Neither of my parents approved." Oh, god – no alcohol in 13. Was the rebellion even worth that? Her 'mother' was the political regime, her 'father' the military. And apparently they weren't much into freedom of speech, but the soldiers were protected.

"And why do you think you would be a good escort for 12?" Though mentors don't get the final vote we get to interview and 'recommend' escorts – and then the Capitol ignores us completely.

"I'm very persuasive. I believe I'll connect with your district better than your previous escort – I care very much about my work." So District Thirteen would be better than the Capitol, and nicer to us. 'Loving'.

"Good, because it doesn't pay very well. Tends to have more of a personal cost than anything." A cost in lives when they send their army in, a burden we can do little to help shoulder.

"I'm not interested much in personal gain. The honour of the work is most important, though I would hope that you would one day help me, and give me a good reference to your friends. Land me a better job, so to speak." After the rebellion we'll be expected to back them politically then. I smile sourly, still ruffled at the prospect of no drink – _no drink_ – and jot down a few notes of little importance.

"One last question," I say and glance at the clock, realising it's been ten minutes instead of the thirty I expected. "If we chose a tribute to win based on their strength and survival skills, but then they got ill and the other tribute did something to make them popular, should we switch?"

"Definitely. The Capitol loves a shake up and we should always follow the best course of actions, regardless of ethics." Ouch. So Coin really would use whatever was necessary to win the war.

"Thank you very much Miss… Tillian. Oh, and try to compliment Effie on her lipstick, she's been going on about it for ages, some fashion trend she thinks will take the world by storm," I recommend idly. She smiles and procures a pair of red and pink sticks from her bag, holding them up for me to see.

"I know. Awful look but I thought I'd copy her and then say she's my fashion idol. It's the little things that work with women, Mr Abernathy." She smiles that no-teeth smile again and ghosts out the room, shutting the door behind her. I tip my head back and sigh, briefly wondering if I'm sober enough to write her a report and then deciding against it. I'll do it in the morning, or use it as an excuse to get away from the terror woman.

The door bangs open even though she was my last interview of four and a man strides in, built like a brick with a buzz cut and a bunch of scars. Pride and disdain is written in every line of his savage features.

"Brutus. I didn't know you wanted to be my escort. Hmm, I think you'll need the lipstick though. Do you think pink is your colour?" Oh, if looks could kill. I grin happily, too drunk to care about the consequences and that he doesn't have a clue what I'm talking about. "No, you're right; it would clash too much with your skin tone. Pink _eye shadow _though…"

"Haymitch, you drunk bastard, listen to me. I know we don't get along –"

"You mean that you beat your kids and then laugh when they kill mine? Yeah, we do have issues. We should get relationship counselling." Sarcasm, man's best friend. Looking at Brutus's enraged face I can see every crime committed, every death cheered for, every child's pleas for mercy I've had to sit through because this man believes killing is a triumph. There are many good people in 2, honest people, loving people. People who would never wish the Hunger Games to be but know that every time they applaud the Games their children are safer, their plates more filled, their mines more safe. Brutus isn't one of those people, and his tributes suffer for it. I don't think there's anything I hate more than seeing a kid getting hurt by someone who should be caring for them.

He takes a deep breath and I sit back comfortably. I've wanted many people to die in my life and I've killed not nearly enough of them, so watching him angry, frustrated and needing my help gives me a grim satisfaction. _Not so much of a worthless rat am I now?_

"Crane is a strange man," he says, surprisingly slow and serious. "I know every single Gamemaker – they've slept in my house, eaten my food, a few have even fucked my wife. But Seneca Crane? He was never interested. They say he's a genius, that he'll walk into the office one day and produce a contraption never even thought of before, that everything he does is controlled and careful and brilliant. He has no wife, no kids, and no family to speak of. No home but the design room and no friends but the obligatory members of Snow's party and Snow himself. And then suddenly a man who loves the law above everything else, who enforces it on others, starts playing around with the dynamics of the tributes?"

"Brutus, I really don't know what you're trying to say here."

"I'm saying this is unchartered waters." Getting up he begins to pace, the sway of one foot to the other making my head spin. "The lovers twist, Crane's erratic behaviour – there's never been a Games like this Hay, so how do we mentor for one?"

"Don't call me Hay," my voice is suddenly dead and cold. "Crane acts like a sick, twisted man in love with his job, just like you do. As for their being a we, I hope that you'll make the right choice and back Cato as we both know you must, but there is no 'we'. We aren't a partnership Brutus. And the door is that way."

"I'm not leaving till we come to an agreement." He states, his eyes glowing fierce and defiant and dangerous.

"Then I will leave you and if you follow me to my room, God help you. I'm an old man Bruty and really doubt you want to see me nude."

The look on his face is worth whatever waits in the morning.

**A/N: A CHALLENGE, ALL YE COURAGEOUS ONES!**

**What can I do to improve?**

**Your grammar and spelling is getting in the way of the reading experience**

**You move too fast, jumping erratically from conversation to conversation**

**There's an imbalance of description and speech (please say which is too much!)**

**The chapters are too long/short**

**The relationships move too quick/too slow**

**This is isn't as original as it could be**

**Please label from 1 to 6, one being my biggest problem, six my smallest! For example, I think I'm 1-B, 2-E quick, 3-D short, 4-C speech, 5-F, 6-A.**

**I have a forum for competitions and because you love me (and reviews, but me more) you will use this link: forum/The-Roses-of-War-Forum/128134/**


End file.
